Welcome to the cupboard of broken toys — Part 23


Corporal McCarthy liked to tell the story of when he was serving in Northern Ireland, how he was being harassed by Captain Taylor, the Ops Officer, who was in the habit of inspecting the billet. By all accounts, he would come in each morning, go straight to the toilets and point accusingly at an imaginary speck of dirt.

“What is this? Corporal McCarthy?” he would demand rhetorically in his fussy little voice, bristling his fussy little moustache. “It’s shit, Corporal McCarthy. It’s shit. Get it sorted out.”

He would repeat the same formula day after day until Corporal McCarthy had had enough. One morning he ordered the fatigue crew to go out and pick up litter while he, McCarthy would clean the toilets.

He flushed them and scrubbed them and flushed them and scrubbed them so that they were spotless inside and out. Then he produced a tub of peanut butter and smeared a blob inside one of the bowls.

When Captain Taylor arrived to inspect the toilets, he went absolutely incandescent with rage:

“What is this, Corporal McCarthy?”
 “It looks like shit, Sir.” Taking a sniff, “It smells like shit.” Scooping it up and tasting it, “And it tastes like shit. I’d say it’s shit, Sir.”

A little later, the Troop Sergeant Major came to see McCarthy.

“I don’t suppose you have anything you want to tell me?” He enquired gently. “About what, Sir?”
 “You seem to have broken Captain Taylor.”

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